A Series of Sherlock Oneshots
by elfmaiden4legs
Summary: A series of continuing oneshots which take place pre-Sherlock, throughout series 1-3 and beyond! As each instalment stands alone and can therefore be read independently to the others this story will be marked as complete, but I will continue to update as and when I write anymore oneshots!
1. A Mad World

**A Mad World**

Growing up Sherlock had often wondered if there was something wrong with him.

He would often see the familiar faces around him, at school, at home, and at one of mummy's many social functions – which she'd once seemed to hold on an almost weekly basis – but faces had never really been of any great importance to him. He much preferred to 'observe'.

By the time he was a teenager Sherlock prided himself on the fact that he could walk into a room anywhere in the world and deduce anything about the last person who'd been there just by observing the smallest of details, and trusting the evidence of his own eyes.

It had been a brilliant party trick – at least it would have been if Sherlock had of had any friend's to share it with. Mycroft had always been the most sort after of the two brothers, although he too had had his own issues and had suffered his fair share of abuse at the hands of school bullies, he was the oldest and at least he had friends.

Sherlock had learnt very early on that age seemed to command respect – not clever conjuring tricks, which weren't even magic at all. He'd never quite felt as though he fitted in with the rest of society. People were stupid, always seeing but never observing.

Sherlock had always hated school, he could learn pretty much everything his teachers had to teach him from his books at home, if he knew where to look. The other students just seemed to look right through him, they didn't care about one more lonely boy, and he found the whole set up quite pointless and a waste of his valuable time.

His was a world of infinite knowledge and possibility.

There's was one of monotonous nothingness, the same old unchanging routine day in day out. He would rather be alone, no matter how lonely being alone sometimes felt. He'd rather have his brilliant mind than be surrounded by a room full of stupid people.

They always seemed so sad anyway – their ignorance bore them no happiness like the saying said it was supposed to.

As the years went by Sherlock began to realise that he didn't want anything to do with this strange world of theirs where nothing seemed to make any sense to him, and so he shut people out from his, afraid to get too close because of the ridicule – and he began to wonder if there was something wrong with him.

It was only as he got older that he realised it was because he was brilliant, not because of anything wrong, or because of anything he'd done, that people disliked him. He couldn't help that, he couldn't help the person he was, but his brilliance intimidated them – and so he learnt that if he couldn't earn their love, then at least he might earn their respect.

He isolated himself from society, focusing all of his energies into honing his skills. He kept his emotions caged, distancing himself from affection and sentiment, and eventually Sherlock forgot how to care. People sort him out for his skill, but failed to see the man behind the cleverly constructed mask – and eventually Sherlock ceased to be human in the eyes of those whose respect and admiration he craved. He became a machine, robotic, superhuman in their eyes – a reputation Sherlock Holmes felt the constant pressure to live up to.

Until he forgot what it felt like to be human too.


	2. Living With Sherlock

**Living With Sherlock**

It was early on a Monday morning, and the first time John saw Sherlock that day he'd come down to breakfast to find his friend asleep on the sofa. He'd just finished working on his latest case, and so hadn't slept in days. John was pleased to see his best friend resting – it helped to remind him that he was human after all, and as a doctor John realised the benefit of sleep to the consulting detective's exhausted body. On more than one occasion he'd been tempted to slip a sleeping pill into Sherlock's tea just to force him to rest – but on this occasion there had been no need. He smiled, covering his friend with a blanket, and grabbing himself a slice of toast before heading off to work.

When John returned from work that evening however Sherlock was still asleep on the sofa just where he had left him, so he checked that he was still breathing and headed back out to the pub. His mood had somewhat sobered since that morning – Sherlock had just finished work on one case, but there were no others in the pipeline for the moment, and John knew from past experience exactly what that would mean for the residents of 221B over the next few days.

The next day Sherlock seemed a little tearful, but John didn't push his friend at breakfast. The consulting detective managed half a cup of tea and a few bites of toast before jumping up from the breakfast table and agitatedly scratching a few sharp notes from his violin in the corner of the room, before storming off to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him. John sighed. Polishing off his last slice of toast, and finishing his tea, he shut his laptop down before concealing it in a secure location away from Sherlock's restless hands. On his way out he exchanged a few words with Mrs Hudson, asking her to keep an eye on his friend for him whilst he was at work. The long suffering Landlady simply nodded in understanding.

When John returned to the flat a little later that evening he was relieved to be greeted by the sight of Sherlock shouting at the television, and laughing mockingly at the guests on some American chat show he'd been watching on one of their many satellite entertainment channels – well at least he wasn't moping anymore John thought, but he wasn't sure how much of his best friend's shouting at people who could neither hear him nor understand the 'mundane state of their own existence' he could take, and when Sherlock had finally taken off his slipper and thrown it at the TV screen in a fit of temper, this had been the last straw for the long suffering doctor. The television had promptly been switched off after that, and John had been forced to spend the rest of his evening dodging sulky looks from his best friend.

When John came down to breakfast the next morning it was to find Sherlock drinking whisky for breakfast. He didn't say a word, but just took the bottle from the consulting detective and left for work without exchanging a single word with his friend. He'd been through this too many times before to feed into a redundant argument, which is what he by now realised Sherlock really wanted. As far as the consulting detective was concerned a battle of wills was almost a good substitute for a case, but John was too tired to argue. He could only hope that Sherlock wouldn't find out where he'd hidden the half empty bottle of alcohol whilst he was out.

When John arrived home later on that afternoon it was to find Sherlock stumbling in a disorientated fashion all around the flat – he'd found the bottle of whisky again, and according to the detective he was now in the middle of another experiment. John simply sighed, taking the bottle from his friend's fingers and promptly pouring the rest of the expensive liquor down the sink, before patiently putting a disgruntled Sherlock to bed to sleep off the effects of the intoxicating substance. Someone would have to clean up this mess before Mrs Hudson found out – the consulting detective's own meagre records were scattered all over the floor, and a smoking test tube was balancing beneath a flaming Bunsen burner on the kitchen table. John supposed it would have to be him, and he sighed.

He closed his eyes, shutting his ears to the world around him and took a deep breath.

Tomorrow would bring with it another case, he told himself, and life with Sherlock Holmes would go back to normal. With someone like Sherlock you just had to take things one day at a time.


	3. Overdose

**Overdose**

"Sherlock are you sure you're alright?" Doctor John Watson leaned over to get a better look at his friend, who was lying curled up on the sofa opposite him. He'd been particularly quiet all day – not at all like his usual self – and Watson was growing increasingly concerned for his wellbeing.

He'd now been sitting in the leather armchair watching his friend's shivering form for the past half an hour, as cold sweat trickled down Sherlock's pale forehead, and, by the way he kept rubbing his palm through the back of his hair-line – the back of his neck.

"I've told you, I'm fine…" Sherlock sighed.

"You don't look fine." Watson observed critically.

"I'm fine."

Sherlock emitted a muffled groan, pulling his pyjama jacket tighter to his shivering shoulders, and turning over onto his side.

He looked exhausted.

They'd both just completed work on a rather trying case which had required an extensive amount of thought, even on Sherlock's part, and he hadn't eaten or drank and had barely slept in days. Perhaps he was just beginning to feel the effects of severe sleep deprivation, dehydration, or malnutrition Watson wondered to himself.

But some small part of him seriously doubted that to be the case.

"Leave me alone." Sherlock groaned, and Watson frowned.

"I didn't say anything." He hesitated. "Sherlock are you sure you're alright?"

"It's just a headache…" The Consulting Detective sighed quietly, hands balling into pained fists at the side of his head, and Watson could now clearly see that his friend was clearly not alright…

Sherlock was in pain.

He sighed, getting to his feet.

"Any other symptoms?" He asked. "Nausea, vomiting, blurred vision?"

"No." Sherlock replied pettishly, turning stiffly to look at him as the doctor turned to leave the room. "Where are you going?" He asked.

"To get my bag." Watson explained. "I want to take a look at you!"

"There's no need for that." Sherlock groaned, but Watson was adamant.

"Wait here!" He said.

 **S.H.S.H**

When Watson returned he found Sherlock struggling to his feet from the sofa. The man was very obviously weaker than he'd previously made out and he watched his friend as he staggered slightly and swayed – his legs clearly unable to support his own meagre weight.

Watson stood and watched him from the bottom of the stairs as Sherlock put one shaky hand up to his head, and staggered forwards.

The doctor in him noticed immediately what was about to happen before he even started on his uneasy decent forwards, and he ran forwards to catch Sherlock as he fell.

"I'm fine…" Sherlock continued to mumble as John helped manoeuvre him back into his seat.

"I thought I told you to wait here!" He scolded him.

"I just wanted a glass of water." Sherlock explained, sitting back down with a frustrated sigh - but John was now leaning over him and had already began to unbutton the top few buttons of his pyjama shirt.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock frowned.

"Just sit still." Watson ordered.

He took a stethoscope from his black leather bag and Sherlock shivered as he placed the cold instrument to his chest - without even thinking to warm it first. Listening intently for a few moments to his friend's heart and lungs, he frowned and sighed.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked.

"You're heart-rate's irregular." John explained – clearly concerned.

As Watson then rolled up his friend's shirt sleeve to check his pulse he was alarmed to observe a series of angry red welts which adorned the length of Sherlock's arm.

"How long have you had these?" He asked.

Sherlock looked down at what had caught John's attention. "It's just a rash." He remarked – clearly unconcerned.

It didn't look much like a rash to Watson's trained and experienced eye however – the small angry patches of raw flesh weren't random but appeared to follow some sort of pattern. They were broad circular scars, the surface of which appeared to be dotted by tiny seeping blisters – and they looked more like a series of small burns…

… and then something suddenly began to dawn on Watson.

The case they'd recently completed work on _had_ been a particularly trying one. It had occupied most of Sherlock's time for close to a month, taking almost everything he had to give, and had required an awful lot of thought – and of course for Sherlock thought meant nicotine patches.

With a now new and dawning sense of urgency Watson whipped up the sleeve of the man's other arm – nearly yanking it out of its socket as he made a vicious grab for it – and closed his eyes as his suspicions were immediately confirmed as he noticed the same, almost identical marks, on the flesh of the opposing limb.

"You idiot!" He cursed.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock asked.

"It's the nicotine patches Sherlock!" Watson explained. "You've overdosed on nicotine!"

Sherlock simply looked blankly up at him – fuelling Watson's concerns, and his worry over the fact that he didn't yet know how bad the poisoning was.

"I'll bathe the wounds," He sighed, taking a closer but careful look at the angry and weeping lesions, "and then we'll have to look at getting you to the hospital."

"No." Sherlock snapped, although weakly. "No hospitals, I don't want to go to hospital."

"You have to this time Sherlock I'm afraid." John explained. "I can't treat this. Now, just wait here whilst I go and find something to bind these wounds. I'll be back in a minute."

 **S.H.S.H**

When Watson returned for a second time that evening he was relieved to see that Sherlock had at least adhered to his instruction and appeared somewhat calmer than he had done - if not a little subdued - and he proceeded to wash and bandage the wounds with little resistance from his friend.

When he'd finished he leaned back on his haunches to take a closer look at Sherlock's pale complexion - and the distant expression in his eyes.

"I've called an ambulance." He told him. "I didn't think you'd appreciate being bundled into a taxi, the state you're in, after… well, after the last time."

This appeared to snap Sherlock out of the daze which had gripped him, and he sighed. "I thought I told you no hospitals." He groaned weakly. "The drugs slow the mind…"

"And I told you that I can't treat this." John responded. "Sherlock, this is serious. Nicotine poisoning can be dangerous if left untreated. Now, I'm the doctor and you're the patient, for once will you not just respect my professional judgement and accept the advice I'm giving you?"

"Do I even have a choice about this?" Sherlock asked, but John shook his head.

"No you do not!" He said.

He then proceeded to clear away the left over dressings and bandages whilst Sherlock watched him, all be it quietly, from his position on the sofa and when he had completed the task in hand he returned to his friend's side, kneeling carefully down beside him.

"Now Sherlock, have you got any other symptoms?" He asked him gently. "It could be important."

Sherlock looked back, a petulant frown deepening the fine frown lines along his forehead, and for a moment John wondered whether he was going to respond.

"It may help us determine how advanced the poisoning is…" He urged him - but Sherlock's expression had already begun to soften.

"Bad headache," He confessed, "A slight nausea with a complete loss of appetite, cold sweats, and a slight dizziness…"

"Any difficulty in breathing?" Watson asked. "It's important you let me know."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, not yet."

"Well," Watson instructed him, "you'll need to tell me as soon as if you start experiencing any such symptoms, nicotine poisoning isn't normally fatal these days if we get you immediate medical attention, which is why we need to get you to hospital as soon as possible, but it can still be a dangerous condition."

"John?" Sherlock asked as Watson turned from his friend's side, and he thought that he detected a note of something unusual in the man's tone… perhaps even fear.

"What is it Sherlock?" He asked.

"Come with me…" Sherlock faltered, pleadingly. "Don't leave me… please John…"

John smiled.

"I won't Sherlock." He tried to reassure him. "I promise. I'm not going anywhere."


	4. Are You Alright?

**Are You Alright?**

" _Nobody's reading your website!"_

As these words had left John's lips Detective Inspector Lestrade had noticed Sherlock's face fall as he'd taken his friend's biting words to heart – it seemed to take a moment for his meaning to sink in, but then Lestrade observed the slight widening of the Detective's eyes, his mouth set into a stiff, thin line, the corners of his lips twitching slightly, and his head dropped slightly.

Sherlock Holmes had never taken heed of anything anybody had said to him - unlike anybody Lestrade had ever come across in his life before he hadn't ever seemed to care what anyone had thought of him – until Doctor John Watson had arrived on the scene.

It had been Lestrade who'd managed to convince Sherlock to set up his website 'The Science of Deduction' in the first place, as an outreach to the outside world. Sherlock had been lonely, struggling to communicate his brilliance, and Lestrade had thought that the website had been the perfect medium by which for him to communicate with the outside world.

Now he was forced to stand and watch as Sherlock backed away from the examination table and stalked slowly out of the mortuary, and aiming a disapproving look in John's direction – a look which to all intents and purposes remained unnoticed – he followed him out into the corridor.

"Are you alright?" He asked Sherlock who was leaning up against the wall - his gaze directed towards the floor.

"Of course, why wouldn't I be alright?" He asked.

"You know you don't have to pretend you are if you're not. You're a great detective, I wouldn't think any the less of you if you were just a little more human." Lestrade said.

Sherlock laughed – a slightly bitter tone.

"You were the one who convinced me to set up that website in the first place." He snapped. "Tell me, what's the point if nobody's reading it? It's just a pointless waste of my time!"

"It's good for you." Lestrade sighed. "People need to understand that not everything's so black and white in this world, they need their eyes opening to the brilliance which surrounds them and yet seems to pass most of them by unnoticed every day. You've said it yourself many a time that people so often see but do not observe. That website of yours, it injects some much needed colour into the mundane of this world… and it's not good for you to spend so much time locked inside your own head! Having that website humanises you!"

As he spoke the door to the mortuary swung open and John appeared. The concerned expression upon his face revealed to them both that he'd evidently heard every word which had just been said.

"I'm sorry if what I said upset you." He apologised, looking at Sherlock as he addressed his friend exclusively, but Sherlock turned his head away from him uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond to such an openly empathic display and embarrassed to have been betrayed by his own emotions.

"It didn't… you didn't… it doesn't matter." He faltered, still avoiding John's gaze.

Lestrade smiled meekly in John's direction before turning to leave. He'd done all he could do. Sometimes people just needed time to settle their own differences – this wasn't his battle to fight – and the doctor acknowledged him with a curt nod of the head, indicating that he understood as he watched the DI walk away.

"I read it…" John confessed once Lestrade had left, and this produced the vague flicker of a response from Sherlock - who looked up at him as he said this with dark eyes, and a pained expression upon his face.

Watson could tell by his friend's reaction that his words had cut him deeply. Sherlock always did his best to remain detached, and emotionally distant from people – whether they be his family, his friends, his colleagues, or his clients - but he was after all only human, and it was only when he'd been seriously hurt and wounded that this became all the more apparent. Distancing himself was a defence mechanism he'd built up over the course of a lifetime, making himself unreachable protected him from pain and helped to make him feel safe.

"I shouldn't have said what I said…" John said.

"No!" Was Sherlock's only response, and as he turned he began to walk away. Watson sighed and followed his friend. He could tell that it was going to take much more than a simple apology to make up for this. Sherlock was a master at giving people the silent treatment, and his sulks could go on for days.

John could only wonder how long his friend was going to make him suffer in silence this time, and could only hope that it wouldn't take too long for Sherlock to come round.


	5. When Dealing With A Child

**When Dealing With A Child**

"Sherlock, if you don't stop picking your stitches I'm going to have to put the bandages back on!" John scolded as he plonked a mug of tea down on the coffee table beside where his friend was reclining reluctantly on the sofa.

"But they itch." Sherlock protested childishly, pulling his pyjama top down impatiently, and turning to John. "And I'm bored!"

"You need rest!" The doctor implored his friend adamantly, and Sherlock could see that he was beaten, as John went to sit in his own nearby armchair – eyes turned towards the television.

"All this fuss over just a little scratch!" He muttered moodily under his breath.

"Just a little scratch?" Watson turned on his friend more severely now – not noticing the small smile curl the corners of Sherlock's mouth as his words managed to provoke the desired response from his friend - it was always so easy to wind John up. "You were shot Sherlock… I… I thought we might have lost you!"

"Oh, I've had worse cutting myself shaving!"

"Look, I had a hard enough time convincing your consultant to release you into my care in the first place." John explained. "And if you don't start behaving yourself and do as you are told, for once in your life, then I'm going to take you straight back there! Do you understand?" He sighed, holding his head despairingly in his hands.

Sherlock opened his mouth and looked as though he may have been about to say something for a moment, but Watson quickly cut him off, and he closed it again.

"Do you want me to call Mycroft?" He threatened, and Sherlock could see that he was serious.

"No…"

John smiled as he turned his gaze back towards the television, satisfied that this final threat of Mycroft had finally put an end to Sherlock's petulant whinings, and the picking of his wounds which could put him at risk of developing a pretty nasty infection - but the peaceful silence didn't last long.

"Oops…"

John's head swung round instinctively as he heard his friend gasp, and it didn't take him long to spot what Sherlock was complaining about now.

"Oh look at that!" He groaned in his exasperation, observing the fresh patch of blood now seeping through his friend's pyjama top, like ink bleeding through blotting paper. "You've made it bleed! That's it Sherlock, I've had enough of this, I'm putting your bandages back on! Wait here whilst I go and get the first aid kit, and tomorrow morning I'm taking you straight back to the hospital!"


	6. Never Pickle A Gleeful Seagull

**Never Pickle a Gleeful Seagull**

Doctor John Watson just about managed to get Sherlock into the recovery position in time before he projectile vomited all over the floor. Irene Adler certainly hadn't been understating the effects of the drug upon the human body, he thought – just before she'd oh so conveniently escaped out of the open window – and Lestrade had arrived just in time for the Consulting Detective to empty his meagre stomach contents all over the Detective Inspector's shoes.

"Oh great!" Lestrade exclaimed as he leapt backwards, but not nearly in time to prevent himself from getting splattered in Sherlock's vomit.

"He can't help it," John explained, "he's been injected with something!"

"Well can't you give him anything?" Lestrade asked.

"I don't know what he's been injected with." John told him. "If I do I could end up overdosing him, or he could have a potentially fatal drug reaction. I could be doing more harm than good."

Sherlock whimpered and John was down on the floor and at his side in an instant.

"Look, just help me get him back to Baker Street will you?" He asked, putting a hand to Sherlock's warm forehead, and feeling the clammy flesh beneath his fingertips – before checking his pulse. It was elevated, but there was nothing out of the ordinary in that – he had after all just emptied his entire stomach contents all over the bedroom floor.

"Wouldn't a hospital be a more appropriate place for him?" Lestrade asked, taking in the consulting detective's drooping eyelids and pale complexion. He was quite sure that the vomiting spell had subsided, at least for the moment, but remained at a short distance away from Sherlock just to be on the safe side.

"Not unless I can tell them what it is he's been injected with." John sighed as he heaved the semi-conscious Detective to his feet, and did his best to support his meagre frame – which really wasn't as heavy as he'd initially expected, and it surprised him a little that Sherlock really weighed so very little for a man of his stature. "Which," he continued, "I thought we'd already established I cannot. I'll keep a close eye on him for the next few hours, and if there's any change in his condition I'll be sure to let you know."

The doctor and detective both turned as they heard two sets of footsteps ascend the stairs behind them, and Donovan and Anderson entered just as Sherlock began to dry heave again – but there was nothing left for him to bring up.

"Oh that's disgusting!" Donovan exclaimed, and Anderson turned away with a grimace, as the two observed the vomit as they entered – so, John observed with a smile, Anderson, who dealt with dead bodies every day of his working life, also happened to be squeamish about bodily fluids. Well, that was unexpected, he thought to himself.

"Never pickle a gleeful seagull…" Sherlock murmured, and John looked at him and frowned.

"What was that Sherlock?" He asked, not quite believing what he had just heard come from the Consulting Detective's mouth. "What did you say?"

"John…" Sherlock slurred, his head drooping sideways, and it became increasingly apparent that he was by now only partially conscious and therefore probably not even aware of what he was saying. "You shouldn't laugh at a sad giraffe…" He muttered.

Upon hearing this both Anderson and Donovan struggled to conceal a fit of the giggles and Lestrade immediately pulled out his smart-phone and proceeded to film the whole scene now unfolding before his very eyes. There was a small part of him which was still really rather worried about Sherlock, but an even larger part which wasn't about to let this opportunity pass him by without finding some way to document the occasion for future leverage.

"Hey, hey, and just what is all this in aid of?" Watson asked, perplexed by the Detective Inspector's unusual behaviour. "Just how exactly is _that_ going to help us?"

"Blackmail." Lestrade smiled. "You never know when this," he pointed to the small screen of his phone as he said this – the red light indicating that it was currently filming, "might prove useful."

"The woman, woman, woman…" Sherlock grinned to himself, his words all rolling into one, and John's eyes rolled.

"Look, just help me get him home will you?" The doctor pleaded as he started dragging a by now pretty close to unconscious Sherlock towards the stairs. Anderson and Donovan quickly moved out of the way as Watson struggled to negotiate Sherlock's dead weight past them through the open doorway, Lestrade following closely behind with his phone – but the consulting detective said nothing more to embarrass himself further. This didn't stop both Donovan and Anderson from continuing to chuckle to themselves lightly in the corner though, evidently both significantly amused by what they had just heard.

John was sure that there would come a time in the very near future when Sherlock would feel the need to come up with some very elaborate plan to get the camera phone off Lestrade and wipe the potentially compromising footage from existence, but for now that was not his main concern. His main priority was to get Sherlock back to Baker Street and into bed as soon as possible so he could sleep off the effects of whatever the substance was Irene Adler had given him.

He could only hope that the drug would have no long lasting effects on his friend, and that Sherlock would be back to his normal, irritating, obnoxious self by the morning.


	7. Panic Attack

**Panic Attack**

Sherlock could hear John's voice next to him as they both sat in the small lounge of their Dartmoor hotel, contemplating the evening's events. Sherlock could still see the spectral image of the gigantic hound – its jet black fur and glowing red eyes – which had stalked both him and Henry Knight back at the hollow, and it scared him. He'd always been able to trust the evidence of his own eyes, the hound wasn't real, he'd been convinced of that fact from the very beginning – it would have been just yet another stray animal, fuelling local myth and legend, simple and boring – and yet he'd seen it with his own eyes.

He couldn't bring himself to look at John, fixing his eyes straight ahead instead – he was afraid that if he looked his best friend in the eye he'd fall apart. Cold sweat started to gather upon the pale flesh of his forehead and trickle down the back of his neck. His hands, usually so steady, began to tremble and his body to shake as the breath hitched in his chest. He was usually able to divorce himself from his emotions, remain detached, and yet here he now was, his body giving into fear and betraying his moment of weakness.

He couldn't breathe, his palms were slick and clammy with sweat, and his heart felt as though it was about to burst through his chest, fluttering painfully. His head began to spin, his lips and fingers began to tingle, and turn numb, and there was a horrendous ringing in his ears. Rational thought in that moment seemed almost to have evaded him. He'd snapped at John once already this evening, but thankfully his best friend had seemed to realise that at least for once in his life Sherlock was not in complete control of the venom within his tone, and after taking a few minutes to compose himself had returned to find him still sitting were he had left him in the lounge.

He looked back down at Sherlock helplessly – yes he was a doctor but he'd never seen his friend like this before and so had no idea how to comfort him. Sherlock simply looked up into John's sympathetic face pleadingly, he realised that he was losing all grasp on reality but he was paralysed with fear – he couldn't breathe properly, he couldn't move, he couldn't even see straight. His legs had turned to jelly and he was worried that if he made any attempt to get up they would simply give way beneath him, which would prove exceptionally embarrassing - not to mention painful.

"John, get me out of here…" He begged for his friend's assistance, and John frowned, slightly perplexed and taken aback by Sherlock's request.

Sherlock's complexion was pale, even his sharp cheekbones had taken on a ghostly white hew, he was visibly shaking now, and his dark curls clung to his forehead and the back of his neck, which was slick with sweat – but still the young doctor had no idea how to help his terrified friend.

"Please John…" Sherlock gasped. "People can't see me like this… just get me out of here."

John looked deep into his friend's troubled eyes – he'd often seen this reaction to stress in men before, back on the battle grounds of Afghanistan – soldiers who'd been so paralysed by their own fear that they often couldn't move or even breathe, all rational thought seemed to evade them and they appeared to become locked inside their own minds, a prisoner of their own terrifying thoughts – but he'd never in his wildest dreams expected to see it happen to Sherlock.

Gently he aided his trembling friend to his feet – Sherlock's legs were so weak that he had to support his entire weight all the way up to their room as the detective's hands tremored and his teeth chattered together ever so slightly – his pale skin was also icy cold to the touch as John carefully guided him, and helped him to negotiate the small flight of stairs, and he gave the general appearance of someone beginning to go into emotional shock.

Back upstairs John forced his slender frame to sit down upon the bed – Sherlock's breathing was still rapid and irregular and so he carefully took him by his thin and clammy wrist to check his pulse - all the time speaking to him softly so as not to startle his distressed friend, but needing to reassure his own concerns that there wasn't something more serious going on than just a simple panic attack. So sudden and severe had the attack been.

Finally assured he let his wrist go and Sherlock let his arm drop limply back down to his side.

"I'm going to give you something to help you relax." John explained, as he made his way over to his black leather medical case on the dresser. "I don't know what's going on here Sherlock but whatever it is seems to be affecting you in the same way it's affected Henry Knight all these years, and I don't like it. We mustn't lose our heads, you're the most rational person I know, don't lose touch with reality."

"I don't need anything to help me relax." Sherlock snarled. "I know what I saw… and why is it that we can never go anywhere without you bringing that stupid thing with you?" He asked.

"I'm a doctor," John shrugged, "plus I live with you. It might come in handy one day if I ever need to top myself." He joked.

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head at his own wittiness, and even Sherlock managed to crack a small smile – now at least a little calmer, and seemingly significantly reassured by his best friend's jest and calming tone. He still fought to try to control his laboured breathing though as he watched as John flicked at the syringe he'd filled with a small measure of milky liquid.

"This will help you sleep." The doctor explained as Sherlock looked at the hypodermic reluctantly - although he offered up no resistance.

Realising he was beaten Sherlock took off his coat and rolled his shirt sleeve up slowly.

"You'll feel better in the morning." Watson reassured him. "But this might sting a little."

Sherlock however didn't even flinch as John pierced his skin with the needle and emptied the contents of the syringe into a vein.

 **S.H.S.H**

Nearly half an hour later John had helped Sherlock out of his shirt and trousers, into his pyjamas and into bed – it was only 10 o'clock but the drug he had administered had had a rather rapid effect upon his friend, and he'd thought that they could probably both do with an early night. At least now that Sherlock had finally calmed down his breathing had returned to normal, and he'd stopped hyperventilating.

John sighed as he watched his friend sleeping soundly beside him – wondering what it was which could possibly have got Sherlock Holmes of all people, the most logical man John Watson had ever known, worked up into such a state.

He'd been troubled by what he'd seen that evening, and it had made him all the more determined to get to the bottom of what was going on at Dartmoor – but on the other hand he'd also seen a new and different side to his best friend tonight - a side he didn't get to see very often - a very human side, a side which was vulnerable, sometimes afraid - a side which had proven that every so often he too needed a little help from his friends.

That could never be a bad thing in John Watson's eyes.

Sherlock Holmes was not a robot – he was a human being after all.


	8. Of Course You Count!

**Of Course You Count!**

"I don't count..." Sherlock didn't understand why but Molly's words struck him like a slap to the face, making him turn round and take notice of her properly for what was quite possibly the very first time. She'd always been there for him, and he'd always trusted her.

Of course she counted, how could she feel as though she didn't? Perhaps not in the way she might have liked – Sherlock had always preferred to distance himself from those around him, personal relationships were messy, they always complicated matters, and he couldn't allow anyone to interfere with his work.

The work had always been what had mattered most to Sherlock, those first few euphoric moments when all the answers clicked into place for the first time, and the thrill of the chase – but that didn't mean that the people in his life didn't, or that he didn't care. John mattered, Mrs Hudson mattered, Lestrade too in his own small way, and Molly, she mattered too.

He was so used to taking the people in his life for granted, the people who made themselves available to him because they cared – they were all just tools to be used as far as Sherlock had been concerned, he'd never understood the concept of emotion and so had never seen need to pretend to understand – what had he to gain by feigning empathy with people? They only got in the way, their simple minds muddled and bogged down with ideal and sentiment – slowing him down.

But John had changed all that.

In John Sherlock had not only found a colleague but a friend, and a best one at that – and if John could care and Sherlock grow to reciprocate some glimmer of compassion in return (he actually cared very deeply for John, not that he would admit it, and their friendship meant the world to him in a strange and unique sort of way), then perhaps it wasn't quite beyond the realms of possibility that others might have come to care too – but for the _right_ reasons.

He'd always dismissed Molly because he'd sensed that she'd wanted so much more from him – something Sherlock couldn't give. That sentiment Sherlock thought had made her weak, a slave to her own body's physiological chemical responses, nothing more, nothing meaningful – but that didn't mean that he'd wanted anything to happen to her, and he'd have defended her with his life if it had ever come down to it.

If that was love then Sherlock supposed that Molly did matter – and John, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade, and Mycroft, and, as much as it pained him to admit it, even Anderson and Donovan... because human life was precious.

Perhaps the thought of dying was making him sentimental, or perhaps the thought of losing everything was forcing him to take stock of what he'd got, and what he was about to lose - what it was he'd do anything now to hold onto.

Sherlock didn't want to lose, he didn't want to die – he didn't want to have to say goodbye to everything he'd ever worked for, and to everyone he loved.

But what Molly had just said about him, about her father, was true – and it made him wonder whether perhaps he'd underestimated her. She'd figured out what was going on long before anyone else had – even John, his best friend, his flatmate, the only other individual vaguely familiar with Sherlock's own methods.

Yet he'd been unable to utilise them.

Oh yes, Molly counted, more than she'd ever know, and Sherlock considered that perhaps it was time that he started to show the young woman just some of the respect that he now figured she probably deserved – for putting up with him, for sticking with him, and for continuing to care – but then again it would probably not be wise to show too much.

Despite everything he'd put her through she'd never let him down – only time would tell now, he thought sadly to himself, just how important Molly would prove to be... just how much she counted.


	9. Alone Is All I Have

**Alone Is All I Have**

" _Alone is all I have, alone protects me_."

He knew he was wrong the moment the words had left his lips. John was right, friends did protect people, but Sherlock's loneliness protected them. Sherlock had every confidence that if John had known what he had been planning – that he intended to face Moriarty, and take his last stand, alone – that he would have come after him, tried to convince him not to go - and if that hadn't worked, come with him. But this really was the only way.

Moriarty would never let either of them live now that Sherlock had discovered his criminal underworld, and Sherlock would certainly never give up his pursuit of the criminal mastermind. He would grow tired of his ridiculous cat and mouse games eventually, and then they would all be in danger – all of Sherlock's friends; John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson… Molly. The world needed freeing from the trail of evil and poison that the man left in his wake, and so he did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances, he watched John turn and walk away – the man's final words to his friend an infuriated insult " _you machine_ ," – but Sherlock knew that he didn't really mean it.

He'd watched John turn and walk away, knowing that it would probably be the last time he ever saw his best friend, but that was alright…

Yes, that was alright, Sherlock reasoned. He'd made his peace with himself, and he wasn't afraid of dying – not anymore.

This may have been Sherlock Holmes' last day of life, but he would never have been able to live with himself anyway if anything had have happened to John.


	10. Time To Say Goodbye

**Time To Say Goodbye**

Sherlock stood and watched John standing alone at his grave. He'd watched from the shadows as the ceremony had closed, and been touched by just how many people had turned up to his funeral – Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, even Anderson and Donovan had managed to shed a tear, although whether through any genuine sense of grief or by simple common courtesy he hadn't been able to tell from this distance – but there was only one person Sherlock cared to see, and that was John.

Mycroft would have skinned him alive to know that he was here – he was risking everything they'd planned for to catch this one final glimpse of his best friend – but as much as Sherlock knew that what he was doing was wrong, he couldn't bring himself to leave without saying goodbye.

As he watched his best friend standing beside his grave, pleading with the cold corpse now six feet deep beneath him not to be dead, he wanted so much to step out from behind his tree and reveal himself – to let John know that everything was going to be alright. But he knew that if he did so he might put all of their lives in danger, and as he watched the tears trickle down his friend's face, a single tear gathered in Sherlock's eye also and trickled down his pale cheek.

The simple truth was that he would have taken John away with him in a moment, but even he could see that it wouldn't be fair. He'd always be looking over his shoulder from now on, for danger would never be far away, and always much closer than you'd think. At least this way he'd be able to let go, move on, and live a normal life. Although Sherlock found it difficult to imagine his own life without his best friend by his side.

He'd been doing so well at keeping a safe distance, keeping other people at bay - before John came along.

As he then watched his friend reach out a shaking hand and touch his tombstone tentatively Sherlock's own arm also instinctively extended to touch John's silhouette in the distance, and as he did so he felt the gut wrenching pain of his own heart breaking. Watching as John then turned and made his way back up the hill to where he could see Mrs Hudson still waiting for him Sherlock realised that the time had finally come, it was now time for him too to let go of the past and say goodbye. He wouldn't be coming back – and so as he watched the duel figures of his best friend and his landlady wander off into the distance he savoured the moment, not taking his eyes off either of them until they'd disappeared over the crest of the hill.

Even then he lingered for a moment, hoping for one final glimpse of his friend – but as it became clear that John wasn't coming back anytime soon, Sherlock too finally turned, the tears now falling thick and fast down his own pale cheeks and soaking into the ground beneath him. He didn't look back, just carried on going.

"Goodbye John." He whispered to himself, before, like the ghost he'd now become, Sherlock Holmes finally disappeared into the distance, and out of sight.


	11. Everything Changes

**Everything Changes**

Everything was going to change now Sherlock realised – but just because his life was now going to be very different from that which he'd known since he'd first met John that didn't mean that it hadn't previously been this way in some small measure, and Sherlock had been alone before.

But this time was going to be very different – for what you've never had you cannot miss, but Sherlock Holmes now knew what it was like to have a friend, and he missed the companionship which having another human being to turn to in a moment of crisis, or even just a moment of abject loneliness could bring.

He'd managed to catch a few brief glimpses of John throughout the first few days which had followed his fake suicide, whilst Mycroft was still trying to make arrangements to get him away from London and out of the country. He'd seen for himself the effect that his death had had upon his friend – and realised that John felt the same way about him too.

So many times he'd had to stop himself from calling out to his friend, from reaching out to him from the shadows, and bursting free from his cover.

Sherlock Holmes still had a war to win, Moriarty himself might now be dead but he still had his whole criminal empire to bring down, and John would be much safer if he remained in London from hereon in.

Perhaps, Sherlock thought to himself, he might return himself someday – but the future held no guarantees, and if something were to happen to him in the months to come at least John would remain blissfully unaware of what had really happened to him.

At least knowing what he now knew Sherlock could head off to the war which awaited him knowing that at least he'd found one person in his life that genuinely cared, and would continue to believe in the name of 'Sherlock Holmes' no matter what.

It was quite possibly the hardest thing he'd ever done, but when the time came Sherlock had turned his back on John, turned his back on London and everything familiar and comfortable - on the lift he'd built here - knowing that there really was no other way. He set his sights straight ahead, and tried not to think of home, and of turning back. It wouldn't do anyone any good in the long term – least of all him.

All he could do was promise himself that if he succeeded in the seemingly insurmountable task ahead of him he would return to London someday – he would find John Watson and he would make him understand why he'd had to do what he'd done.

In this way Sherlock Holmes had managed to fool himself into believing that there was no need for him to say goodbye - not just yet.


	12. I Miss

**I Miss...**

I miss John, I miss Mrs Hudson, I miss Lestrade – God I even miss Mycroft, Dovovan and Anderson... well perhaps not Donovan and Anderson.

I miss 221B. I miss Baker Street. I miss Scotland Yard. I miss the smell of London in the morning, and the sound of the city winding down for the evening.

I miss the bright lights, and the high rise buildings. I miss the people, who brought their cases my way – without which my brain is now sure to rot.

I miss the thrill of the chase. I miss the mystery and the intrigue.

I miss the feeling of the adrenalin coursing through my veins.

I miss the sight of familiar things, which brought a sense of comfort in their own way.

I miss Molly, and I miss Moriaty.

But most of all I miss the feeling of having a companion and a colleague, to stand alongside me, and who I could trust to have my back during the most darkest of times.


	13. Giving Up On You

**Giving Up On You**

John looked over at the photograph on the mantelpiece and smiled sadly. The picture in question was one of him and Sherlock Holmes – his best friend looking as uncomfortable as ever in the now 'trade mark' deerstalker he'd despised so greatly in life. It was one of the last photos taken of the two of them before Sherlock's death, and there were still days when John couldn't bring himself to look at it. In the eighteen months since his best friend had taken his own life John had not been able to let go of the hope that it had all been a hoax, just a 'magic trick' - that one day Sherlock Holmes would walk back into his life with a smile upon his face, acting as though none of 'this' had never happened, and expecting instant forgiveness. John would be angry with him of course, but in time he knew that he would give it all the same.

As the months had dragged slowly by however, and the empty void in John's heart had served as a constant reminder that his daily prayers had gone unanswered, Doctor John Watson had started to give up on his friend Sherlock Holmes.

He'd have followed Sherlock anywhere, to the ends of the earth if he'd have only asked. Whatever had prompted the man to take the course he'd taken, whatever he may have been thinking during his last final moments, he hadn't had to take his own life.

He'd never lost his faith in his best friend – no, that he would never do – but as time had passed him slowly by he'd come to the terrible conclusion that he would never see Sherlock again. He'd spent so many lonely evenings screaming angrily at that very photograph upon the mantelpiece. Screaming for Sherlock to say something – to give him some sign that he was still alive – and as the days turned into weeks, those weeks into months, and finally a year had come and gone John had started to give up on Sherlock.

The Doctor had never felt so small as he did now without his best friend by his side. Life with Sherlock had been a whirlwind, a constant roller-coaster of ups and downs which had made John's life worth living again. He'd thought that after over a year of sharing a flat with the man he'd come to know the world's only consulting detective pretty well – that he'd got a pretty accurate measure of the man who'd rather rapidly become the best damn friend Doctor John Watson had ever had.

The Sherlock Holmes he'd known had been emotionally distant, often cold but without ever meaning to be, constantly complex, and always logical. His life had been dominated by fact not fantasy. To all outside eyes Sherlock had been a man completely incapable of understanding other people's emotions, but John had known that just because that may well have been the case it hadn't necessarily meant that he'd been incapable of feeling emotion too.

John was only now beginning to realise that he hadn't known anything at all – for just as he had had to learn not to take Sherlock's lack of sentiment personally, Sherlock had had to learn how to love, how to more adequately express his emotions, and how to show people that he really had cared. He thought about his friend's reaction to the news of Irene Adler's death, the fear in his eyes upon the evening he thought that he'd seen the Hound upon the moors of Baskerville, and of the kiss he had shared with Molly the night of their very first Christmas party. Sherlock had made an effort to change, to make friends, and to integrate himself into society – albeit with only a very small and select group of people.

It was only now that John was beginning to notice the baby steps Sherlock had taken – and that broke his heart all the more.

"I'm sorry that I left you." He whispered as he starred into the still, dead eyes of the man in the photograph. "I'm sorry that I didn't get to you in time. I let you down Sherlock." He sniffed. "I loved you… I will always love you. You were my best friend… but I'm saying goodbye."

He reached out one shaking hand to gently stroke the picture frame, and hiccoughed as he swallowed hard to dispel the lump in his throat and the swelling of long suppressed emotion inside his chest. He had promised himself that he wouldn't put himself through this again.

"Please Sherlock…" He sighed, "I'm so sick of praying to a God that I'm not even sure I believe in anymore, but I'm asking this of you one last time. Please, Don't. Be. Dead. Just do something, say something to let me know that you're still out there, somewhere. Don't let me give up on the only man I've ever believed in…

Because I'm giving up on you."


	14. In The Arms of An Angel

**In The Arms Of An Angel**

John sat bare foot on the edge of his bed and gazed sadly out of the window. He looked up at the stars above, sparkling and scintillating as though someone had spilt glitter amongst the inky black of the night's sky. He was still waiting for his second chance. He prayed every day that Sherlock was still out there somewhere, that someday he would return, but he knew in his heart that that was never going to happen. Sherlock Holmes was dead, and he was never going to see his best friend again. He had to learn to let go, and to accept that he was never coming back.

Meanwhile somewhere on the other side of the world Sherlock Holmes looked up at the setting sun, setting the sky alight in a blaze of red and orange flame, and he thought about his friends back home. He was doing all of this for them - for Mrs Hudson, and for Lestrade, and for Mycroft and for Molly, but most of all he was doing this for his best friend John. He'd given up everything for them all. This was the only way he knew how to keep them safe.

He was all alone now, although he didn't so much mind, he's had been a life full of solitude and in the past he'd rather enjoyed being alone – but everything had changed now, he found, and he did miss John.

Sherlock hoped that he was alright.

John looked sadly out of the window and sighed. He hoped that wherever Sherlock Holmes was he was in the arms of an angel, and that he knew how loved he'd been, and how very very much he was now missed.


	15. Finally Home

**Finally Home**

Sherlock starred into John Watson's eyes - those dark and angry eyes which starred coldly back at him. Their oh so familiar blue were exactly as he'd remembered them these past two long years, if it wasn't for the fact that their twinkle of days gone by had now been replaced by a darkness which reflected an inner turmoil and his friend's unspoken pain.

He couldn't help it – the break in his voice as the lump swelled in his throat betrayed the emotion he'd fought to hide, and the tears welled in his eyes.

He'd dreamed of this moment for the past seven hundred and forty five days - he'd thought of nothing more than of seeing John again. It had been the only thing which had kept him going during what had transpired to be some of the most difficult days of his life, but it was only now that he was faced with the sight of his best friend standing before him that Sherlock Holmes realised that he was finally home - and really, truly safe for the first time in what had been two very long years.


	16. Sherlock's Medicine

**Sherlock's Medicine**

Mrs Hudson ushered Mary into the upstairs flat of 221B early one afternoon and quickly disappeared downstairs once again. Inwardly she was happy that Sherlock Holmes was still alive, but she was still angry with him, and he could tell had not yet completely forgiven him for what he'd put them all through throughout the two long years he'd been away. He'd been back in London for almost a month now, and things were still fraught between John and he. Even John Watson however had had to admit that his best friend had been uncharacteristically quiet since his return. Even Mycroft - evidently troubled by his concern for his brother - had finally persuaded him to prescribe some mild anti-depressants for Sherlock – not that judging by the state of the flat, Mary now observed, he'd been taking them. It wasn't that the world's only consulting Detective was depressed in the clinical sense, but he'd been having a rather hard time readjusting to life back in London since his return, and his brother had been under the impression that the medication might in some way help.

Secretly the doctor knew that Mycroft's only reason for contacting him had been his concern that if left to his own devices Sherlock might once again turn to other, illegal substances. Nobody had seen him now for several days, and finally, unable to ignore his own mounting anxieties any longer, John had asked Mary to pay Sherlock a visit at home during her afternoon off.

As she stepped through the threshold into the darkened space which had once been at the centre of Sherlock and John's world, even she hadn't quite prepared herself for the sight which met her eyes. Sherlock had obviously seen fit to unpack since his return – the empty cardboard boxes which had once contained what had remained of his belongings after Mrs Hudson had got rid of what she could – were piled up in the corner of the room, but the rest of the flat was in disarray, and it looked as though the curtains hadn't been opened in days.

"Don't tell me," A small voice emanated from somewhere on the other side of the room, and Mary jumped as her eyes readjusted to the unnatural gloom of her surroundings, "he's got you checking up on me now has he? But he still doesn't have the grit to come and see me for himself?"

Her eyes quickly settled upon the source of the disembodied voice, and she smiled in his general direction as he waited for her racing heart to slow. Sherlock Holmes was lying on the sofa in a darkened corner of the room, buried underneath a pile of blankets.

"He's worried about you." She explained.

"He hates me." Sherlock declared. His voice was still strong, but he sounded tired – as though he hadn't slept in days.

"He doesn't hate you Sherlock," She sighed as she stepped over to the window in order to open the curtains and inject some much needed light into the darkened room, "he loves you. If he hated you he wouldn't care if you were still alive or not. He was a broken man when he thought that you were dead," she explained, "he's just hurt now that he's found out you've been alive all this time and yet you never even attempted to let him know."

As she threw the curtains open she disturbed a large plume of dust which had settled upon the surface of the fabric and was sent mushrooming out into the atmosphere, making her cough.

"I couldn't," Sherlock muttered sadly under his breath – and once Mary had sufficiently recovered herself she turned to look at him properly. She couldn't figure out whether the melancholic expression upon his face was born of an intense sadness, or whether he was simply brooding, but it was becoming increasingly apparent that one way or the other Sherlock had spent the best part of the past few days wallowing in self-pity, "they would have killed him if I had." He declared.

"I know." She smiled in sympathy.

"He doesn't need me anymore anyway Mary." He sighed, and there was a slightly bitter undertone in his voice as he spat, "He's got you!"

"He hasn't replaced you Sherlock," She tried to reassure him and began to busy herself with tidying away the empty cardboard boxes, piles of dust covered books, and what remained of Sherlock's chemistry set - the pieces of which had been carelessly discarded all over the room, "no one could ever do that. I might be his lover, but you're still his best friend. It's a completely different type of love." She explained.

"Can I just ask?" He snapped, throwing the blankets aside in a tempestuous display of his exasperation, and swinging his too-thin body over the side of the sofa as he tried to sit up. "Why do you even care? You don't know me!" He looked at her with venom in his eyes.

"Because you're a good man Sherlock." Mary sighed - sorting through a set of leather bound books in her hand, before deciding that the best place for them would be the empty bookcase pushed up against the wall in the furthest corner of the room. "Beneath that hard, cold, hard to reach exterior you hide behind you have a good heart. Only someone who cared for John very deeply would have done what you did, and made the sacrifices you made – and because you have a great mind, too beautiful a brain to waist it all moping around here." She said, gesturing at the state of the room in which he appeared to have been living.

"I'm not the man I used to be." He snarled. "I'm not the man I was when John first met me."

"But you could be." She urged him. Sherlock Holmes could be an awkward man to deal with at the best of times, let alone when he was in a fragile frame of mind. It had seemed to Mary from what John had told her of his best friend that he'd been the only one Sherlock had really listened to during the comparatively short time they'd known each other – he could calm him when he was angry, cheer him when he was low, and pull him up when he was unintentionally abrupt or rood without suffering too much reproach from the consulting detective. Mary too, just like her lover, could prove just as much a match for Sherlock Holmes, and was not so easily swayed by his display of temper. "You could have everything the two of you had before, and so much more. You've got a second chance Sherlock. Most people would give anything for that. Don't waist it."

"What do I do?" He asked her.

"You're home now Sherlock. You're not alone anymore, and believe it or not there are still people out there who care about you, people who never stopped loving you, and certainly never for a moment stopped believing in you."

"Yes, but what do I do?" He asked her again.

"You salvage what you can of the past," She told him, "you pick up the pieces and you start again. You get up out of that seat, you wash, you get changed, you go downstairs, you walk out of that front door and you face the world with your head held high. You prove to all those people who never gave up on you that their faith wasn't misplaced in Sherlock Holmes. From what I have hears you have nothing to admonish yourself for."

"And if I don't?" Sherlock looked at her, defiance in his eyes. "What then?"

"Well," She shrugged, "you could stay here, lie there for the rest of your life whilst the rest of the world carries on around you, and never look another person in the eyes or take a single case again. John and I would get married, and you might see each other occasionally but nowhere near befitting enough for the strength of the friendship I know you to both have… but somehow though Sherlock I don't think that's really your style. You're a fighter."

She rose to leave, feeling his eyes upon her as she made a move towards the door.

But before she left Mary turned to look back at the man one last time - still donned in dressing gown and wrapped in blankets upon the sofa. She saw the life return to that emaciated form and the sparkle to those cold, dead eyes, and she realised – there was no need for anti-depressants, this talk had been all the medicine Sherlock Holmes had really needed.


	17. One More Miracle

**One More Miracle**

"John," Mary smiled as she sat up in bed and looked over at her finance, who was starring sadly out of the bedroom window and down at the deserted city streets below. He looked at her but didn't respond and so she slipped her legs out from beneath the sheets and her bare feet into her slippers at the edge of the bed, and made her way over to the man whom she loved.

"It's been two weeks," She sighed as she wrapped her pale arms around John's warm shoulders and rested her head gently against his neck, "why don't you go and see him?"

John looked at her with burning contempt and tears glistening within his eyes. His nightly vigil had been the same for the past couple of weeks, since Sherlock Holmes had returned – seemingly from the dead. Mary and John had known each other for nearly two years now and had been engaged for a little over six months. She had met him at a time when the man had been at his lowest ebb. He had just lost his best friend, and she'd seen him through many a difficult night plagued by nightmares in which he had been forced to relive his friend's fall from the roof of St Bart's Hospital over and over again.

She had been there for him then, had offered him a shoulder to cry on, a sofa for him to crash on after one of many drunken nights out, and an ear to listen when he'd needed to talk. She'd taken on the role of friend, carer, therapist, and finally lover. She'd gently coaxed him back to a state of quiet contentment, and she was there for him again now, as she always would be from now on.

"Because Sherlock Holmes is dead!" John spat, but seeing the look on his soon-to-be wife's face he guiltily revised his tone. "I'm sorry," He apologised, "but the Sherlock Holmes I knew died the day he decided to jump off the roof of Bart's Hospital. He's let me believe that he was dead all this time. I doubt he even thought about me once the whole time he's been away! Sherlock Holmes was my best friend, his death all but broke me, but I have come to terms with it. I have made my peace and I have said goodbye to Sherlock bloody Holmes! He was my past Mary, you are my future!"

"But that's just the point John," Mary said, trying to be as diplomatic as possible under the circumstances as she nestled her head deeper into the nape of his neck and kissed his cheek tenderly. "Sherlock Holmes isn't dead is he? He's very much alive, and I've heard you pray over and over again these past two years for a miracle such as this. I've heard you pleading with a God that I know you're not even sure you believe in for Sherlock Holmes not to be dead. This is your miracle John."

"Whose side are you on?" John turned to look at her and asked, he didn't appear angry anymore though, only wondering, his sad eyes pleading with hers. She could see that in his heart he knew that she was right, be he was afraid to confront Sherlock - secretly scared of the answers he might find.

"Yours," She smiled, "always, which is why I am telling you this. Face it John, you miss him, and he misses you. What he did was wrong, but he's obviously had his reasons for wanting people to believe that he's been dead all this time. He owes you an explanation, and you at least owe it to him to give him the chance to explain."

"I don't owe him anything." John shook his head. "Sherlock Holmes was an arrogant, self-riotous prick when I met him. He believed that he was better than everybody else – and yes, maybe he was greater than any man I'd ever met, nor was ever likely to – but he treated people as though they didn't matter, as though they were surplus to requirement. He turned my life around, gave me something to live for, gave me a home, someone to care about when I had no one, and then he took it all away from me with one click of his little finger. Just like that."

Mary sighed sadly. She looked up into John's liquid eyes and slowly disentangled herself from her lover's slack hold. "I know you're angry with him John," She conceded, "and so you have a right to be but don't be too hasty in how you judge him. I know I don't know him, but I'd be prepared to speculate that things haven't been as easy for him as you seem to think. He's had a strange faraway look in his eyes since he got back, and London now seems so foreign to him. It's as though he's forgotten what his life was once like before he went away. There's a pain in his eyes which speaks of untold horrors, and a strange sadness about him – it's the same type of sadness I recognised in you when I first met you."

"Hang on a moment, you've spoken to him?" John asked.

"He called round asking for you about a week ago." Mary explained. "I told him you were at work and he hasn't been back since. I don't think he's coping at all... he seemed so lost."

John looked at her, incredulous as to what she was saying. Sherlock - the old Sherlock - would never have given up so easily. He'd have hunted John down, forced him to listen, and not given up until he'd brought him around to his way of thinking - or at least berated him into reluctant submission.

"He needs you John," she smiled, "and you sure as hell need him. Go and see him tomorrow. You've been given what most people would give anything for, a second chance. Don't throw it all away."

John looked at her, and nodded - slowly.

She was right of course. Part of him was relieved and rejoicing to have his best friend back, but Doctor John Watson was a man conflicted. He also hated him for what he'd put him through, and that part of him would be happy if he never saw Sherlock Holmes ever again.

But in the end John knew that it wouldn't be fair on Sherlock to turn his back on everything they had been through together - and what had once been a close and life affirming friendship - without first giving him the chance to explain, and John for his part certainly needed answers.

He _would_ go and see Sherlock, first thing in the morning, even if he was not entirely sure that he would like what he might find.

"I know you're right." He forced a smile as he wrapped both his arms around Mary and pulled her closer to him, feeling her slender body shiver against his.

"I know." She smiled, as his lips met hers.


	18. Actions Speak Louder Than Words

**Actions Speak Louder Than Words**

As Sherlock dragged John's bound and lifeless form from the burning embers of the bonfire and patted out the flames - which still continued to creep up the length of his trouser leg like a fiery caterpillar and eat away at the singed bottom edges of his jacket - he couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief as his friend gave a sudden, shaky, intake of breath and opened his eyes.

Sherlock didn't even notice the pain in his own hands at first – the raw, slightly throbbing sensation of new skin upon salty and slightly perspiring flesh – as he patted John's face gently in an attempt to rouse him. He'd felt the heat of the fire upon his face, and the raw and slightly gritty sensation of the smoke within his lungs – evidently coaxed along by some sort of accelerant judging by the smell of the fumes – as he'd breathed in its toxic breath.

His lungs ached slightly from the exertion, but the effort didn't much matter now that he knew that John was safe, and as his friend sufficiently recovered enough to sit up, before being helped to his feet by Mary, Sherlock had managed to escape to the relative safety of the throngs of the crowd.

The adrenaline, which had driven his desperate race through the streets of London to get to John in time, was now beginning to wear off, and with it the pain of his own souvenirs of that horrible evening was beginning to set in.

How many times was this going to happen? He wondered. How much more was this exhausted body going to have to endure before the fates decided that he had finally suffered enough? Mycroft had sat back and watched whilst his little brother had been beaten to a near bloody pulp before he'd made any attempt to intervene, and he was still nursing the numerous aches and pains he'd acquired as a result of his ill treatment at the hands of his captors. Since his return to London he'd sustained a bang to the head, a burst lip, and had very nearly received a broken nose at John's own deceptively gentle and healing hands.

He looked down at his own hands now – the black leather gloves he'd been wearing had done little to protect them from the searing lick of the flames – and there was a large burn on the palm of his left hand which had penetrated right through to the bare flesh beneath. He couldn't prevent the tears which began to well and sting his bloodshot eyes as he gently stroked his one uninjured hand over the other, and the biting sting caught him a little by surprise. He hadn't been expecting it to hurt quite so much as it actually had.

He wanted to get the glove off to take a better look at the wound, but could see no foreseeable way of doing it without causing himself even more pain, and so he stood there starring helplessly down at the seeping welt, squeezing his wrist with the thumb and forefinger of his other hand to try and intercept some of the pain receptors to his brain – the rest would simply be down to mind over matter he told himself.

This time however his 'transport' had failed him, mind over matter simply wasn't going to be enough when the pain was growing in momentum with each passing second and all he could think about was John. He managed to stifle a strangled whimper – where exactly had that noise come from he wondered, surely it couldn't have come from him – as Mary came up behind him and gently stroked the small of his back with one reassuring hand. Sherlock stiffened slightly at her touch, but not as much as he might once have done.

"John's going to be fine." She explained with a smile. "It looks like we got here just in time. A few minor cuts and bruises, and some slight smoke inhalation, but he says that he doesn't need to go to hospital."

"And you're quite sure of that?" The consulting detective asked, failing to disguise the concern in his own voice – nor the very slight shake as the act of speaking diverted much of his attention away from trying to gain some sort of a psychological advantage over his failing body, allowing the pain to once again creep in.

"Well, he's the doctor." Mary nodded.

"Hmmmmm." Sherlock responded with a laboured breath. He wished that he could better articulate the joy and the relief he felt in equal measure at the knowledge that his best friend was going to be alright, but it was the only response he could muster under the circumstances – holding his injured appendage out in front of him, and starring down at the small crater in his one gloved hand with wide eyed wonder.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" She frowned.

"Just… thinking…" He lied – hoping that it would be enough – as he forced the words from between tightly pursed lips. His body began to tremble slightly with the effort of trying to remain as still as possible – movement at this stage would simply use up vital energy, resources which were better channelled into keeping his façade going for as long as possible – but he hadn't counted on having met his match in Mary. He'd determined the measure of the woman immediately upon their very first meeting. She was bright – exceptionally so. He had every confidence that a woman of her intellectual prowess could have done anything she'd wanted – but she had an even kinder heart, which was what had led her into a career in nursing.

"Oh God," She exclaimed as she followed Sherlock's gaze, looking down and observing his outstretched hand for the first time. She took note of the jagged hole in his glove, and the angry, slightly seeping flesh beneath. "Sherlock you're hurt! Why didn't you say something?" She asked. "Here, let me take a look."

She held out her hands to take a better look at the injury, but Sherlock instinctively recoiled from her touch, drawing the hand closer towards his body protectively. She could tell that he hadn't had much cause to place himself in the care of another before, and therefore wasn't used to having to entrust his fate to the good intentions of others.

"No it's alright, I'm fine." He lied.

"I'm a nurse, let me be the judge of that." She insisted, holding his gaze for a moment, and doing her best to appear reassuring but resolute at the same time. She would not be swayed from her cause, she was determined to take a closer look at the man's injuries – Sherlock's hand needed immediate medical attention, she could see that much from a distance, and without closer examination of the wound – and he regarded her with a somewhat confused frown. She could tell that Sherlock Holmes was also not a man used to being challenged.

Finally he relented.

He still appeared somewhat uncertain, but handed her the reluctantly proffered limb – flinching, and his whole body stiffening in pain as her fingers brushed gently over the exposed layers of new skin.

"Shhhh, shhhh, it's alright. I'm sorry." She soothed. "I know this hurts."

Sherlock gritted his teeth in an attempt to help himself withstand the pain and stifle any further whimpers or vocalisation of his discomfort which might betray a sign of weakness. His body shivered as she carefully uncurled his fingers and gently began to pick some of the burnt fibres away from the angry outer edges of the wound. She tried to prise the glove away from his hand to get a better look at the state of the damaged tissue underneath, but this only appeared to cause him even more pain and so she finally gave up.

"I've called a taxi to take John and me back to the flat." She explained. "Why don't you leave the bike here for tonight and come back with us. That hand's going to need tending too."

"Really Mary, I'm fine." Sherlock insisted, and fixed her with a determined glare, but the gaze Mary fixed him with was even more steadfast and resolute. "Plus John and I are not exactly on the best of terms at the moment." He explained. "To share a cab with him might be running the risk of coming off with another bloody nose. I don't think my pride nor my face is up to withstanding another battering like the last one at the moment."

Mary smiled.

"Oh Sherlock," She sighed, "you really _don't_ understand anything about human nature do you?"

He looked at her – slightly perplexed. He thought they'd already established on the evening of their first meeting that he did not.

"Come on," She sighed, taking his injured hand gently within her own as she rubbed his elbow affectionately, before wrapping a guiding arm around his waist. She might have been smaller than the consulting detective but was surprisingly strong for a woman of her statue and Sherlock found himself being swept along with her in the direction of the awaiting taxi, where John was already seated in the back of the cab he observed. He tried not to grimace as he accidently caught his hand on the car door upon getting in, and he soon found himself seated between a very frosty John, and Mary.

"I'll try and enlighten you on the way." She smiled.

 **SHERLOCKHOLMESSHERLOCKHOLMES**

"No cases then?" John asked as he sat himself down in his old armchair opposite his best friend the following morning. There was a small cut to his temple, but apart from that there were no further outward signs of his ordeal from the night before. Sherlock still appeared slightly tense following the visit from his parents but as the doctor looked over at the detective he sank further into the back of his chair, content that his friend was at least now speaking to him.

"Yes," Sherlock responded, "plenty, but Mary said that I should be resting, so I'm taking the day off." He tried to make his tone as deadpan as John's but didn't quite achieve the same effect.

"You never take the day off." John pointed out matter-of-factly.

Sherlock's pale eyes bore into John's dark blue, and in them the doctor recognised a pain which he'd been too pre-occupied with hating his friend to recognise before. His hand must still have been very sore he observed, he noticed Sherlock grimacing slightly on a couple of occasions despite the fact that he was trying very hard to hide it, and he would never have normally taken a day off unless he felt incapable of working – but this was different, this pain went much deeper. It was almost as though Sherlock Holmes felt lost – even slightly afraid maybe. He kept his emotions well hidden, and his face as stony as possible in order to maintain the illusion of indifference and to protect himself from getting hurt. There was a sense of torment upon his face which had not been there before he'd left two years ago, and John automatically wanted to ask him about it – but then he remembered what Sherlock had put him through, and the anger returned, bubbling away slightly just below the surface, and he thought better of it.

"What are you doing here?" The consulting detective asked. John was a little affronted by his best friend's abrupt tone – ' _best friend_?' He wondered, ' _could he even call Sherlock that anymore_?' They hadn't seen each other in two years, a lot might have changed in that time.

John still wasn't even sure that there was a place for Sherlock in his life anymore – despite the events of the evening before he still couldn't bring himself to forgive Sherlock for the years of hell he'd put him through, and he didn't see how the two of them could possibly ever move forward from this point. So much had changed, he'd changed – and yet there was still a small part of him, the part which had longed for this day to come every day for the past few terrifying months, which was now overjoyed to finally have Sherlock back where he belonged.

He felt so conflicted, so confused by his own emotions – and Doctor John Watson didn't like it.

"If you must know I wanted to make sure that you were alright," He explained, "and to say thank you."

"You hated me yesterday." Sherlock frowned, "what's changed?"

"Mary actually." The doctor sighed. "She really likes you you know, God knows why, but I was already on my way to see you when they kidnapped me."

Sherlock's frown grew, puckering his forehead into one long jagged crease of confusion and his head tilted to one side subtly in a manner John had so often observed when they'd been interviewing a client in the past – it made his breath hitch in his chest and his stomach do summersaults into his throat as he observed those eyes, set deep into a face that he never thought he'd see again, holding him in such an intense gaze.

Sherlock Holmes was reading him, and John Watson was an open book.

"You risked your life to save me last night Sherlock." He shrugged. "Actions speak louder than words."

John still wasn't smiling, but _'At least,'_ Sherlock thought, _'it was a start.'_


	19. Wrong On One Point

**Wrong On One Point**

John looked down at Sherlock's plate and sighed.

"You've let your food go cold. Mrs Hudson will play hell." He declared.

"Not now John." Sherlock groaned. He was deeply engrossed still in the previous night's case, and John knew all too well from experience that Sherlock Holmes rarely ate when he was working. Today though he sensed that there was something slightly different about his friend. His complexion was still an unhealthy shade of pale, and there was a thin sheen of sweat upon his forehead and bottom lip.

"Were you sick again?" John asked, immediately putting two and two together.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, but it's nothing." He explained. "I'll be alright."

"Have you taken anything?" He inquired, despite his own discomfort immediately displaying concern for his best friend. He knew the answer to his question before the words had even left his lips – but that didn't stop him asking all the same.

Sherlock had already returned to his work but shook his head as if to answer in the negative.

"I'll get you some aspirin," John sighed, "and some black coffee."

He turned to leave the room, but before descending the staircase he turned back to take one last look into the communal sitting room of 221B, in the direction of Sherlock, his back bent stiffly over a dozen laptops, and his fingers dancing frenziedly from one keyboard to another as he worked at a pace far too fast for John to decipher what he was typing.

A pang of sorrow, and something else – possibly nostalgia – tugged at him. Mrs Hudson's words still resounded in his mind. Things were going to change now he realised, but John was determined to prove her wrong on one point. No matter what happened from now on he would never forget, nor would he turn his back, on his best friend Sherlock Holmes.


	20. You're The Freak

**You're the Freak"**

"Tell me Philip, why do you care so much?"

"Why don't you?" Anderson demanded.

"You never used to." Sally scoffed.

"The man was shot barely a week ago, his heart stopped, technically he was dead for several minutes. If this was anyone else Sally you'd be out looking with the rest of us, but because this is Sherlock Holmes you couldn't seem to care less."

"I do care." Sally shot back. "I loathe and detest the man, but that doesn't mean that I _want_ anything bad to happen to him. I am just not going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that _I_ was one of the people looking for him when you all find him safe and well and find out that this was just another ploy to get our attention."

"What happened to you Sally?" Anderson spat, shaking his head in disgust of the woman standing before him – shamelessly owning her lack of empathy.

"What happened to _you_?" She demanded. "You're standing there all holier than thou, but you used to give him as good as we got with the rest of us. You're the one who's changed Philip, not me!"

"We shamelessly hounded Sherlock like a pack of wolves. "Anderson glared. "Don't pretend that he always deserved our vendetta against him. It was _jealously_ that drove our hatred, jealously that the man could do things that we even as police officers could only dream of, not principle. We were both devastated when we thought he was dead, and that we were partly responsible for him taking his own life. The difference is that whilst you were somehow able to push that thought to the back of your mind I grew a heart!"

"Don't make out as though I don't have a conscience!" Sally screamed. "You lost a good job because you were unable to put the man's death behind you! I just refused to throw away the rest of my life over Sherlock Holmes!"

"Yes, and look where it's got you Sally," Anderson sighed, "so cold that you can't even bring yourself to help us search for a dying man! You once told John that one day there'd be a body in a morgue somewhere and that Sherlock Holmes would have put it there. If anything happens to Sherlock and you refuse to help us look for him then his blood will be on _your_ hands."

"I wasn't the one who shot him." She glared at him coldly. "I didn't force him to leave the hospital!"

"You know Sally," Anderson growled, his voice alarmingly controlled. He lowered his tone to a dangerous hiss and Sally could tell that he was about to bring the conversation to an end, "since Sherlock returned from the dead he's been a changed man. Granted he's still cold and distant. He can't understand and empathise with other people's feelings and motivations, but at least he's making an effort, I can see that now, it's not that he chooses not to. You on the other hand have become everything you once hated about Sherlock Holmes. You're the freak!" He spat, before turning his back on Sally and storming from the room – leaving the sergeant with a look as though she'd just been slapped in the face.


	21. Sentiment's Place

**Sentiment's Place**

"You know Sherlock," Mary turned to the world's only Consulting Detective early one cold January evening, a small smile curling the corners of her gentle lips. Sherlock looked up as she spoke, startled by the broken silence – in the darkness of the room, lit only by the flickering flames of the yellow and orange fire, she thought that she could see his eyelids slowly start to close but he was clearly trying to resist his body's urge to sleep, "that night I shot you, you told John that it was sentiment that stopped me from killing you…" She considered.

Sherlock frowned, and she appeared to avert his probing gaze for a moment. He seemed confused, as though he didn't quite understand why it was that she had decided to open up this can of proverbial worms now when things had seemed to be going so well for her and John, and the three of them had settled back into life as though the events of a few months ago had never happened – but he could also see that there was something preying very heavily upon her mind, and which she evidently felt the need to get off her chest, and so he decided to break the habit of a lifetime and let her speak.

Sherlock liked Mary, and she liked him. For what it was worth if John had really had to marry someone he was glad that it had been her. She had an alluring antithesis of danger and domestic prowess, and over the past few weeks had steadily somehow managed to bring her husband's best friend out of himself in a way that it seemed nobody else could. Sherlock seemed to respond to her, and now that his wife was on maternity leave John had encouraged her to spend as much time as she could with Sherlock.

"When I heard your voice," She explained, "and turned to see you standing behind me in that office that evening my heart froze. I admit that for a few split seconds I didn't know what to do. Your presence complicated things. Of course the easiest thing would have been to have killed you and Magnussun whilst I had the chance, and then make my escape – nobody need ever have known that it was me in that room that night – but I never had any intention of killing you. It wasn't just for John, although I admit that it did occur to me that he would have been implicated in the crime, and that your death would break his heart – but apart from that it was because I care about you too. I was not sorry for shooting you, but sorry for having to hurt you in order to keep you safe."

"Mary?" Sherlock frowned. She could tell that she was making him uncomfortable, John had explained to her in the early stages of their relationship that Sherlock had never been very good with words or understanding human emotion. He favoured facts and figures over subjective perceptions. The unmeasurable seemed to frighten him, but Mary thought that Sherlock probably needed to hear what she had to say now more than ever. The baby was due in just a few weeks and the Consulting Detective had become increasingly more withdrawn, increasingly less communicative with John and increasingly more isolated.

She got the feeling that there was probably a lot more pain in his heart, and a lot more going on inside that most complex and perplexing brain of his than he would ever have been prepared to let on.

"Of course I also knew that if I didn't shoot you, Magnussun would have," she explained "and he _would_ have killed you. I don't suppose it ever occurred to you Sherlock that if he'd found you in his office that night going through his files then he would never have let you live long enough to speak of what you might have found… but that was not the reason I pulled the trigger.

You gave me no choice, and I have hated myself every day since for what I did to you, but you were right, I could have killed you that night, and I didn't…"

"Mary…" Sherlock faltered, his voice catching in his throat as he spoke, and his eyes pleading with her not to say anymore. He sat, rigid in his seat with surprise, not knowing how to respond.

"I didn't because I love you Sherlock." She continued, unswayed by the Detective's less than receptive response to her words. "I love you as John loves you, as a friend – one of only a few I have ever had. You see you _were_ right on one point Sherlock, it was sentiment that prevented me from killing you that night, but you failed to factor in one thing – that I could care for you as well as John, that not every decision I make now revolves around the fact that I love my husband."

"What exactly are you trying to say Mary?" Sherlock sighed wearily. She looked into his tired eyes and wondered why he didn't just admit defeat and go to bed. She wouldn't think any the less of him for it, but he was doing his best at trying to be super human again.

"I am telling you Sherlock that me and John, that the baby, doesn't change anything when it comes to you. You're still a very important part of our lives. We both still love you as much as we ever did. I couldn't kill you that night, and neither of us can live without you now. I have liked you from the first moment we met in that restaurant and I could see that everything John had ever told me about you was true. I hoped then that you would accept me, and you did. Now neither of us has any intention of losing you."

"Who said that you're losing me?" Sherlock asked. "If I had any intention of abandoning John then I wouldn't have bothered coming back."

"But you feel as though he's abandoned you don't you?" She asked – Sherlock directed her an incredulous look. "You came back expecting everything to go back to how it once was, and instead you discovered that everything had changed. I know you haven't said anything to John about what happened to you throughout the two years you were away, but I can bet it was no holiday. I've been there myself Sherlock, I've lived amongst the worst dregs of society and been witness to the most depraved of human behaviour – on the receiving end of it more than once – but you're home now Sherlock, you're amongst people who love and care about what happens to you. Don't push them away. You mean so much to the both of us – you see I may have told a lot of lies about who I really am in the past but my love for John, how much I have come to care about you, that's all real, it's always been real and we want our daughter to grow up knowing just what a great man Sherlock Holmes is."

Sherlock looked at Mary and a small smile curled his thin and pale lips. He looked so sad, she thought – or maybe it was just the shadows beneath his tired eyes in the dim light of the room which gave that impression, for despite the fact that he didn't say anything it seemed as though sentiment had its place – even in Sherlock Holmes' heart.


End file.
